11 - Conviction - part 2
TITLE: Conviction
PAIRING: gen, Philipp Lahm-centric
RATING: PG, a little swearing
LANGUAGE: English
WORD COUNT: 7608
WARNINGS: Swearing
DISCLAIMER: I do not know any of the characters personally. Points of view are all fictional. Most of the events, however, are fact.
SUMMARY: Philipp Lahm experiences his first World Cup final.
He doesn’t tell Claudia right away; he doesn’t want to bother her at work. It’s only hours later, when they’re both lying in bed and Juli is tucked safely in his crib, that Philipp broaches the topic.
“Still awake?” he whispers into Claudia’s shoulder.
Claudia turns to face him, eyes half-closed. He could see the midnight wakeups taking a toll on her as well. “What is it, Fipsi?”
“I’ve decided to retire from international football after the World Cup,” he says. The darkness covers her face entirely and keeps him from reading her expression.
“Are you sure?” she says.
“Yes,” and even he hears the conviction in his voice.
“What about European Cup? Or winning the World Cup?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says.
Wordlessly, Claudia pulls him into her arms. They stay that way as they both fall asleep.
* * *
After training, Philipp pulls Bastian aside. “Can I have a word later?” he says.
“Sure, after I shower. Or did you want to talk now?” Bastian adds uncertainly, as he sees the look on his captain’s face.
“No, later’s fine,” Philipp says and he busies himself repacking his bag. He waits until the rest of the team wanders out, some stealing odd glances at him, until only he and Bastian are left.
“What is it, Lahmi?” Bastian asks as he plops down on a bench opposite Philipp.
“I’m retiring from the national team next year,” Philipp says, but even if he anticipated surprise, he still feels quite taken aback by Bastian’s shocked expression. “After the World Cup,” he adds unhelpfully, but Bastian’s face remains the same.
However, he soon looks annoyed. “Geez, Philipp, stop pulling my leg,” he snorts. “So what did you really want to talk about?”
“I’m serious, Basti,” Philipp says and the seriousness in his voice makes Bastian stop.
“But we still have France,” Bastian says incredulously. “And what if we- you know,” he gestures, “the World Cup?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Like hell it doesn’t matter!” Bastian says, his voice rising. “You know how important you are to our team, Lahmi. OUR team.”
“I’ve thought about this for a long time,” Philipp says. “It wasn’t an easy decision to make, that’s for sure. But you made me surer of it.”
“Me? What did I do?” Bastian asks, eyebrows rising in disbelief. “I didn’t even have an inkling about this until we talked.”
“Let’s just say when I retire, I’m sure the new kids will be in very capable hands,” Philipp smiles.
“Are you kidding me?” Bastian says.
“I mean, you’re in the team council. It’s practically official already,” Philipp jokes. He finally cracks up at Bastian’s shocked face. “What? It’s not like you never thought of it before.”
Philipp takes the silence as a yes. Bastian says, “Guess I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, huh?”
“I’ve made up my mind,” Philipp agrees and he stands up to take his bags. Bastian follows suit and together, they walk out of the locker room.
“Who else have you told?” Bastian asks.
“Just Claudia.”
“Jogi?”
Philipp shakes his head. “He’s preoccupied with preparations as it is. I’ll find time.”
Bastian exhales heavily. But before he can say anything, they’re outside the pitch and the fans are waiting and they have to go their separate ways.
2014
It feels like preseason once again. The national team has just arrived in Südtirol and the “hotel”, if you could call it that, looks downright amazing. The ferry trip has been spectacular as well. Philipp has been nursing a broken ankle but the atmosphere at camp as well as the tantalizing prospect of once again playing football on the world’s biggest stage excites him immensely.
When Bastian, Manu, and Philipp get to Campo Bahia, the rest of the team are already training. They, too, have just come back from recent injuries, but all are ready to get started. “Well, we’re late but at least your left arm isn’t in a cast this time,” Bastian says to console him but this just earns him an elbow to the ribs.
“Can’t we just go to the training camp in peace,” Philipp groans.
* * *Everything is exactly how it was, but at the same time different. The team council meets and assigns house groups. He meets Jogi to discuss tactics and schedules. He spends time with the physiotherapists to check on his ankle. He goes around the houses, talking to the new kids, making sure everyone’s alright and focused on the next match. Bastian and Thomas try to get him to play golf after their first win over Portugal and Thomas’ hattrick. Philipp just gives them his best annoyed face and they soon give up.
However, the usual team shenanigans still entertain Philipp to no end. Thomas loses a bet and has to go around waitressing in a dirndl. It would almost be traumatic, if it wasn’t so damn funny. Lukas throws a staff member in the pool as they all laugh. Christoph sings “When You Say Nothing At All” on their way to camp after Portugal, which was heartwarming. (Philipp makes a mental note not to sit next to Christoph in karaoke.) And of course, Bastian and Lukas are at it again, pulling pranks on everyone and posting too much on social media. (Well, Lukas, that is.) It makes him feel affectionate and old, like a parent watching his kids grow up. At times, he feels more a part of the coaching staff than the footballers, still part of the players but separated by an invisible line.
The games go well. Not as ideal as Philipp would have hoped, but at least Sweden was still the most terrifying game by a long shot. Portugal, Ghana, USA, Algeria - one by one, they fall. Each day, the golden dream comes closer and closer.
One night, he can barely sleep, tossing and turning after the rest of House 4 has gone to bed. He sits up and looks at the house across - the light on the top floor is open. That means Jogi is up as well. He wonders if the whole team is already fast asleep.
“Miss Jogi already?” a voice whispers, and he almost jumps out of his skin. His door is ajar and Thomas is choking to death in silent laughter.
“There’s a thing called knocking, you know,” Philipp huffs as Thomas enters his room and sprawls his gangly frame over the couch.
“Couldn’t sleep, and I figured if there’s someone in this house who couldn’t, it’d be you.” Thomas shrugs his shoulders.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“About what?” Philipp says dubiously.
“Whatever’s keeping you awake. Couldn’t be pre-match jitters against France, could it?” Thomas says slyly. “Or…do you really miss Jogi?” He ducks as a pillow comes hurtling towards him.
“Well…I just don’t want our last match to be for third place anymore,” Philipp finally admits after a few moments of silence.
Thomas abruptly perks up at the words. “Hey, that’s actually pretty good,” he says in awe. “Make sure you say it in your pre-match pep talk.” Philipp is about to throw another pillow before he realizes that Thomas was actually serious.
“Uh, sure,” he laughs. “Now give me my pillow and go back to your room.”
“Never,” declares Thomas and he races out with the pillow. “Good night, Lahmi!” Half-sighing, half-laughing, Philipp closes his door and finally falls into a deep sleep.
* * *
After they crush France’s World Cup dreams with a goal from Mats Hummels early in the first half, Philipp’s anxiety only increases.
He spends rest days training hard and swimming a lot. Philipp loves swimming. Growing up, he was out training at the pitch while all his friends were chilling at the pool. Swimming isolates him from the team but makes his head clearer, calms his nerves, and enables him to think and analyze while keeping his body busy. Somehow, it’s these physically active moments when Philipp thinks best.
Three days feels too long, yet too short. Already, they are boarding the plane to Estádio Mineirão to face Brazil. To Philipp, semifinals represents a threatening hurdle which Germany had not been able to leap over in all the World Cups he had taken part of. 2006. 2010. At the time, he had been young enough to think that whoever wanted it most would win.
And how he had wanted it so badly.
22 years old. His first World Cup. Cast as part of the so-called “golden generation”, with larger-than-life stars such as Michael Ballack and Oliver Kahn. He had felt invincible. The World Cup, on German soil, as it should rightfully be. But after suffering defeat at Italy’s hands, he could not be consoled. Not even making the All-Star Team or playing all minutes of the tournament comforted him in the slightest.
26 years old. A little more experience, a little bit wiser. The armband rested heavily on his arm, as did the media’s speculations and reactions, no matter how much he tried to shake them off.
The team looked pretty pitiful to outsiders. Some of their more experienced players, and of course their captain Ballack, were out weeks before the competition, leaving them fragmented and incomplete. Jogi was forced to call up a couple of youngsters to complete the 23. The second wave of the golden generation.
And how they shined. Thomas Müller, Mesut Özil, Manuel Neuer, Sami Khedira. Each cross, each goal, each win felt like a dream come true. Philipp almost believed they could make it to Soccer City.
Then came Spain.
Once the ball arced over Manu’s outstretched arm and landed in the back of the net, it was as if Philipp went deaf. He heard nothing even as he watched the Spaniards jump ecstatically on each other and pump their fists in the air. Manu’s eyes were lifeless, his face an empty mask. The dream isn’t over yet, he told himself. But Philipp had always been a bad liar.
When the final whistle blew, Philipp let the tears fall. He didn’t care who was watching, didn’t care that the cameramen circled like vultures, zooming into their vulnerable faces. His heart was heavy, his throat closed up, and he bit his lower lip to stop it from trembling so much. It was an effort to start walking off the pitch. Post-match was a blur. He probably shook some hands and comforted teammates, but his mind was blank as only one emotion flooded his entire being.
Disappointment.
The walk to the locker room was long and arduous. In his head, Philipp replayed the scenarios he had witnessed, looped the mistakes, identifying what had gone wrong and what could’ve been done to make it right. This was one of the qualities that made him a great asset to the team. But it also made him a danger to himself.
“We didn’t play courageously enough,” he says to the interviewer in the mixed zone, trying to keep his voice flat. He had sensed the fear, the hesitation, but what could he do with could-haves now? It was final: the German dream was over. He found he could not hide his bitterness anymore. “It’s a huge disappointment.”
Finally, the interviewer let him go as he spotted Bastian entering the mixed zone. Philipp was relieved; he could only hold in his tears for so long.
* * *
And now, here he is at the same stage, at the same competition. Always the same, yet different. He stands in front of the team: the 22 players, the coaches, the staff. There are good vibes all around but Philipp knows from experience that everything can change at the slightest moment. He clears his throat and the conversations die out. They look expectantly to him.
“Today, is an important day. Today, we go to Belo Horizonte.”
He looks at each of these faces, some old and familiar, some fresh and new.
“The German team is a good team. That is a fact. We started our campaign strong. Zero losses against all opponents, from the qualifiers to our last match three days ago. Even the media has touted us as favorites to win this year’s World Cup.
“But never has a European team lifted the World Cup on South American soil.”
Philipp pauses to let that sink in.
“I have played in three World Cups: Germany, South Africa, and now, Brazil. Time and again, we beat the odds. Time and again, we have proved ourselves stronger than we thought we could be. But at the most crucial moment, we hesitated. We faltered when we needed that strength the most. One mistake. One tiny lapse in judgment. Only one inaccuracy can end our whole campaign.”
He looks at each of them in the eyes. “We have prepared so much for the World Cup. We have had numerous setbacks: injuries, club problems, personal problems, bad luck. But still, we kept our heads down and worked hard. We trained until we collapsed. Until our muscles ached to the point of breaking. Until we thought we couldn’t take it anymore. And all for what?
“What did you come here for? Why are you here, on this plane, thousands of miles away from your homeland?
“One homeland. One team. One dream.” Philipp stabs his fingers at them as he says these words. “There may be football superstars, but they do not exist in our team. This is our team.” He gestures at everyone. “Twenty-three players. Coaches. Trainers. Staff. We could not have come this far if a single one of you is not here. That is our motto, and that is our way to success. One homeland. One team. One dream.
“How much do you want to achieve that dream? How badly do you want it? To what lengths will you go to succeed?”
After a moment, he says, “If you still think that we are going to play for third place this year, then you are sorely mistaken.”
The silent plane explodes with cheers and whoops, Thomas yelling the loudest of them all. “Kapitän! Kapitän!” The energy level spikes out of the roof. Philipp feels like he’s just been through a match, heart throbbing angrily in his chest.
“Did you well to listen to my advice,” Thomas smirks at him later.
* * *
The team starts the match against Brazil with a fire. This is explosive German football at its finest. It is as if the team has one mind, each thought perfectly synchronized with the other, anticipating each other’s moves with absolute precision. Philipp’s heart swells to the point of bursting, feeling in every nerve, in every cell, an inexplicable love for the game. And when the first goal comes from Thomas’ boot, Philipp internally implodes with adrenaline.
The goals come, they come alright, and definitely not in the number Philipp was expecting. First, it’s Miro, who finally supersedes Ronaldo’s record, then Toni follows with a brace soon after. Sami isn’t far behind, either. Two, three, four, five. Philipp swears that if he blinks, the scoresheet will return to 1:0. He has to pinch himself as he walks into the tunnel after the first half. He wonders if his laugh sounds as crazy as he feels. Five! At half time! It is as if all those goals that they needed back in 2006 or 2010 had suddenly come pouring down from the heavens.
During half time, Jogi only has to remind them of Sweden and they sober up. But everyone is feeling an unnamable energy electrifying and connecting each team member to the other. This game is special. Philipp can feel it in his bones.
Brazil’s fate is sealed when André scores two goals in the second half. Oscar gets a late consolation goal, and Philipp knows something is up because he isn’t as bothered about the clean sheet as he should have been. But he doesn’t have time to linger on this as the whistle blows and the whole team practically barrels into each other and screams their lungs out on the pitch.
Seven-one! If Paul the Octopus had told Philipp that yesterday, he wouldn’t have believed it.
“Super, Philipp!” Jogi tells him with a father’s smile.
“Thanks, coach,” he grins.
PAIRING: gen, Philipp Lahm-centric
RATING: PG, a little swearing
LANGUAGE: English
WORD COUNT: 7608
WARNINGS: Swearing
DISCLAIMER: I do not know any of the characters personally. Points of view are all fictional. Most of the events, however, are fact.
SUMMARY: Philipp Lahm experiences his first World Cup final.
He doesn’t tell Claudia right away; he doesn’t want to bother her at work. It’s only hours later, when they’re both lying in bed and Juli is tucked safely in his crib, that Philipp broaches the topic.
“Still awake?” he whispers into Claudia’s shoulder.
Claudia turns to face him, eyes half-closed. He could see the midnight wakeups taking a toll on her as well. “What is it, Fipsi?”
“I’ve decided to retire from international football after the World Cup,” he says. The darkness covers her face entirely and keeps him from reading her expression.
“Are you sure?” she says.
“Yes,” and even he hears the conviction in his voice.
“What about European Cup? Or winning the World Cup?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says.
Wordlessly, Claudia pulls him into her arms. They stay that way as they both fall asleep.
* * *
After training, Philipp pulls Bastian aside. “Can I have a word later?” he says.
“Sure, after I shower. Or did you want to talk now?” Bastian adds uncertainly, as he sees the look on his captain’s face.
“No, later’s fine,” Philipp says and he busies himself repacking his bag. He waits until the rest of the team wanders out, some stealing odd glances at him, until only he and Bastian are left.
“What is it, Lahmi?” Bastian asks as he plops down on a bench opposite Philipp.
“I’m retiring from the national team next year,” Philipp says, but even if he anticipated surprise, he still feels quite taken aback by Bastian’s shocked expression. “After the World Cup,” he adds unhelpfully, but Bastian’s face remains the same.
However, he soon looks annoyed. “Geez, Philipp, stop pulling my leg,” he snorts. “So what did you really want to talk about?”
“I’m serious, Basti,” Philipp says and the seriousness in his voice makes Bastian stop.
“But we still have France,” Bastian says incredulously. “And what if we- you know,” he gestures, “the World Cup?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Like hell it doesn’t matter!” Bastian says, his voice rising. “You know how important you are to our team, Lahmi. OUR team.”
“I’ve thought about this for a long time,” Philipp says. “It wasn’t an easy decision to make, that’s for sure. But you made me surer of it.”
“Me? What did I do?” Bastian asks, eyebrows rising in disbelief. “I didn’t even have an inkling about this until we talked.”
“Let’s just say when I retire, I’m sure the new kids will be in very capable hands,” Philipp smiles.
“Are you kidding me?” Bastian says.
“I mean, you’re in the team council. It’s practically official already,” Philipp jokes. He finally cracks up at Bastian’s shocked face. “What? It’s not like you never thought of it before.”
Philipp takes the silence as a yes. Bastian says, “Guess I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, huh?”
“I’ve made up my mind,” Philipp agrees and he stands up to take his bags. Bastian follows suit and together, they walk out of the locker room.
“Who else have you told?” Bastian asks.
“Just Claudia.”
“Jogi?”
Philipp shakes his head. “He’s preoccupied with preparations as it is. I’ll find time.”
Bastian exhales heavily. But before he can say anything, they’re outside the pitch and the fans are waiting and they have to go their separate ways.
2014
It feels like preseason once again. The national team has just arrived in Südtirol and the “hotel”, if you could call it that, looks downright amazing. The ferry trip has been spectacular as well. Philipp has been nursing a broken ankle but the atmosphere at camp as well as the tantalizing prospect of once again playing football on the world’s biggest stage excites him immensely.
When Bastian, Manu, and Philipp get to Campo Bahia, the rest of the team are already training. They, too, have just come back from recent injuries, but all are ready to get started. “Well, we’re late but at least your left arm isn’t in a cast this time,” Bastian says to console him but this just earns him an elbow to the ribs.
“Can’t we just go to the training camp in peace,” Philipp groans.
* * *Everything is exactly how it was, but at the same time different. The team council meets and assigns house groups. He meets Jogi to discuss tactics and schedules. He spends time with the physiotherapists to check on his ankle. He goes around the houses, talking to the new kids, making sure everyone’s alright and focused on the next match. Bastian and Thomas try to get him to play golf after their first win over Portugal and Thomas’ hattrick. Philipp just gives them his best annoyed face and they soon give up.
However, the usual team shenanigans still entertain Philipp to no end. Thomas loses a bet and has to go around waitressing in a dirndl. It would almost be traumatic, if it wasn’t so damn funny. Lukas throws a staff member in the pool as they all laugh. Christoph sings “When You Say Nothing At All” on their way to camp after Portugal, which was heartwarming. (Philipp makes a mental note not to sit next to Christoph in karaoke.) And of course, Bastian and Lukas are at it again, pulling pranks on everyone and posting too much on social media. (Well, Lukas, that is.) It makes him feel affectionate and old, like a parent watching his kids grow up. At times, he feels more a part of the coaching staff than the footballers, still part of the players but separated by an invisible line.
The games go well. Not as ideal as Philipp would have hoped, but at least Sweden was still the most terrifying game by a long shot. Portugal, Ghana, USA, Algeria - one by one, they fall. Each day, the golden dream comes closer and closer.
One night, he can barely sleep, tossing and turning after the rest of House 4 has gone to bed. He sits up and looks at the house across - the light on the top floor is open. That means Jogi is up as well. He wonders if the whole team is already fast asleep.
“Miss Jogi already?” a voice whispers, and he almost jumps out of his skin. His door is ajar and Thomas is choking to death in silent laughter.
“There’s a thing called knocking, you know,” Philipp huffs as Thomas enters his room and sprawls his gangly frame over the couch.
“Couldn’t sleep, and I figured if there’s someone in this house who couldn’t, it’d be you.” Thomas shrugs his shoulders.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“About what?” Philipp says dubiously.
“Whatever’s keeping you awake. Couldn’t be pre-match jitters against France, could it?” Thomas says slyly. “Or…do you really miss Jogi?” He ducks as a pillow comes hurtling towards him.
“Well…I just don’t want our last match to be for third place anymore,” Philipp finally admits after a few moments of silence.
Thomas abruptly perks up at the words. “Hey, that’s actually pretty good,” he says in awe. “Make sure you say it in your pre-match pep talk.” Philipp is about to throw another pillow before he realizes that Thomas was actually serious.
“Uh, sure,” he laughs. “Now give me my pillow and go back to your room.”
“Never,” declares Thomas and he races out with the pillow. “Good night, Lahmi!” Half-sighing, half-laughing, Philipp closes his door and finally falls into a deep sleep.
* * *
After they crush France’s World Cup dreams with a goal from Mats Hummels early in the first half, Philipp’s anxiety only increases.
He spends rest days training hard and swimming a lot. Philipp loves swimming. Growing up, he was out training at the pitch while all his friends were chilling at the pool. Swimming isolates him from the team but makes his head clearer, calms his nerves, and enables him to think and analyze while keeping his body busy. Somehow, it’s these physically active moments when Philipp thinks best.
Three days feels too long, yet too short. Already, they are boarding the plane to Estádio Mineirão to face Brazil. To Philipp, semifinals represents a threatening hurdle which Germany had not been able to leap over in all the World Cups he had taken part of. 2006. 2010. At the time, he had been young enough to think that whoever wanted it most would win.
And how he had wanted it so badly.
22 years old. His first World Cup. Cast as part of the so-called “golden generation”, with larger-than-life stars such as Michael Ballack and Oliver Kahn. He had felt invincible. The World Cup, on German soil, as it should rightfully be. But after suffering defeat at Italy’s hands, he could not be consoled. Not even making the All-Star Team or playing all minutes of the tournament comforted him in the slightest.
26 years old. A little more experience, a little bit wiser. The armband rested heavily on his arm, as did the media’s speculations and reactions, no matter how much he tried to shake them off.
The team looked pretty pitiful to outsiders. Some of their more experienced players, and of course their captain Ballack, were out weeks before the competition, leaving them fragmented and incomplete. Jogi was forced to call up a couple of youngsters to complete the 23. The second wave of the golden generation.
And how they shined. Thomas Müller, Mesut Özil, Manuel Neuer, Sami Khedira. Each cross, each goal, each win felt like a dream come true. Philipp almost believed they could make it to Soccer City.
Then came Spain.
Once the ball arced over Manu’s outstretched arm and landed in the back of the net, it was as if Philipp went deaf. He heard nothing even as he watched the Spaniards jump ecstatically on each other and pump their fists in the air. Manu’s eyes were lifeless, his face an empty mask. The dream isn’t over yet, he told himself. But Philipp had always been a bad liar.
When the final whistle blew, Philipp let the tears fall. He didn’t care who was watching, didn’t care that the cameramen circled like vultures, zooming into their vulnerable faces. His heart was heavy, his throat closed up, and he bit his lower lip to stop it from trembling so much. It was an effort to start walking off the pitch. Post-match was a blur. He probably shook some hands and comforted teammates, but his mind was blank as only one emotion flooded his entire being.
Disappointment.
The walk to the locker room was long and arduous. In his head, Philipp replayed the scenarios he had witnessed, looped the mistakes, identifying what had gone wrong and what could’ve been done to make it right. This was one of the qualities that made him a great asset to the team. But it also made him a danger to himself.
“We didn’t play courageously enough,” he says to the interviewer in the mixed zone, trying to keep his voice flat. He had sensed the fear, the hesitation, but what could he do with could-haves now? It was final: the German dream was over. He found he could not hide his bitterness anymore. “It’s a huge disappointment.”
Finally, the interviewer let him go as he spotted Bastian entering the mixed zone. Philipp was relieved; he could only hold in his tears for so long.
* * *
And now, here he is at the same stage, at the same competition. Always the same, yet different. He stands in front of the team: the 22 players, the coaches, the staff. There are good vibes all around but Philipp knows from experience that everything can change at the slightest moment. He clears his throat and the conversations die out. They look expectantly to him.
“Today, is an important day. Today, we go to Belo Horizonte.”
He looks at each of these faces, some old and familiar, some fresh and new.
“The German team is a good team. That is a fact. We started our campaign strong. Zero losses against all opponents, from the qualifiers to our last match three days ago. Even the media has touted us as favorites to win this year’s World Cup.
“But never has a European team lifted the World Cup on South American soil.”
Philipp pauses to let that sink in.
“I have played in three World Cups: Germany, South Africa, and now, Brazil. Time and again, we beat the odds. Time and again, we have proved ourselves stronger than we thought we could be. But at the most crucial moment, we hesitated. We faltered when we needed that strength the most. One mistake. One tiny lapse in judgment. Only one inaccuracy can end our whole campaign.”
He looks at each of them in the eyes. “We have prepared so much for the World Cup. We have had numerous setbacks: injuries, club problems, personal problems, bad luck. But still, we kept our heads down and worked hard. We trained until we collapsed. Until our muscles ached to the point of breaking. Until we thought we couldn’t take it anymore. And all for what?
“What did you come here for? Why are you here, on this plane, thousands of miles away from your homeland?
“One homeland. One team. One dream.” Philipp stabs his fingers at them as he says these words. “There may be football superstars, but they do not exist in our team. This is our team.” He gestures at everyone. “Twenty-three players. Coaches. Trainers. Staff. We could not have come this far if a single one of you is not here. That is our motto, and that is our way to success. One homeland. One team. One dream.
“How much do you want to achieve that dream? How badly do you want it? To what lengths will you go to succeed?”
After a moment, he says, “If you still think that we are going to play for third place this year, then you are sorely mistaken.”
The silent plane explodes with cheers and whoops, Thomas yelling the loudest of them all. “Kapitän! Kapitän!” The energy level spikes out of the roof. Philipp feels like he’s just been through a match, heart throbbing angrily in his chest.
“Did you well to listen to my advice,” Thomas smirks at him later.
* * *
The team starts the match against Brazil with a fire. This is explosive German football at its finest. It is as if the team has one mind, each thought perfectly synchronized with the other, anticipating each other’s moves with absolute precision. Philipp’s heart swells to the point of bursting, feeling in every nerve, in every cell, an inexplicable love for the game. And when the first goal comes from Thomas’ boot, Philipp internally implodes with adrenaline.
The goals come, they come alright, and definitely not in the number Philipp was expecting. First, it’s Miro, who finally supersedes Ronaldo’s record, then Toni follows with a brace soon after. Sami isn’t far behind, either. Two, three, four, five. Philipp swears that if he blinks, the scoresheet will return to 1:0. He has to pinch himself as he walks into the tunnel after the first half. He wonders if his laugh sounds as crazy as he feels. Five! At half time! It is as if all those goals that they needed back in 2006 or 2010 had suddenly come pouring down from the heavens.
During half time, Jogi only has to remind them of Sweden and they sober up. But everyone is feeling an unnamable energy electrifying and connecting each team member to the other. This game is special. Philipp can feel it in his bones.
Brazil’s fate is sealed when André scores two goals in the second half. Oscar gets a late consolation goal, and Philipp knows something is up because he isn’t as bothered about the clean sheet as he should have been. But he doesn’t have time to linger on this as the whistle blows and the whole team practically barrels into each other and screams their lungs out on the pitch.
Seven-one! If Paul the Octopus had told Philipp that yesterday, he wouldn’t have believed it.
“Super, Philipp!” Jogi tells him with a father’s smile.
“Thanks, coach,” he grins.